


Nobody ever comes to our house

by vermicious_knid



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 17,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7753231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vermicious_knid/pseuds/vermicious_knid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A growing collection of glimpses into the lives of the king and queen of Gotham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a quiet night in

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who asked, me on tumblr: http://ill-temperedmagpie.tumblr.com/  
> edit: I have no idea how long I'm gonna continue writing these, hit me up with a comment below if you want me to include something special in the plots ( a date at the beach, an I love lucy parody etc.)

 

Domestic is not a word they like to use to describe themselves. He does not like it, anyway.

 

And yet, with time, some games become traditions and traditions become the ritual.

 

Like helping her dye those pretty blonde pigtails of hers red and blue. Well, he supervises.

 

”Just lean over the couch, sugar.” he rumbles, and quietly, she shuffles forward on the coach – eyes like a zombie and chopsticks sticky in her hands. Movie night. 

 

They’re eating noodles from take out cartons and watching tv. Harley is so engrossed in the movie that she barely notices the dye drip-dripping down her sides, making little pretty blood and blueberry marks on her pink fluffy bathrobe. Good thing he’s here to make sure their temporary living room isn’t redecorated ala jackson pollock.

 

_Hey, look at me! I mean, really! Barf, barf, barf! I'm a can opener, a lamp and a shaver! Oh, god! I'm a mish-mash!_

 

Finished with her dinner, and without looking, Harley pushes the take out carton away from her and shifts to sit down on the floor with her legs indian style, alabaster legs peeking out from underneath the robe – toes wiggling idly.

 

There’s a circle of blue and red little dots on the carpet around her, like a fairy ring.

 

_A bargain in every buck! A buck in every pocket! A pocket in... um... every trouser! Ernie's Bargain Circus, where you ride the Ferris Wheel of Values for a better tomorrow!_

 

He didn’t intend (did he ever?) to just sit here and watch her like this. He actually had some work to do, a phone call to make. People to maim. He’s dressed to go out, but somehow he’s been sitting on this coach for the last 45 minutes, eating chow mein and pretending to watch The Brave Little toaster.

 

Oh, and making sure that Harley remembers to wash out the dye in exactly 20 minutes, give or take. She forgets so easily when there’s an animated musical number distracting her.

 

Slowly, he lets one pale hand drift down to caress her neck, dragging a finger down idly. Encircling it with his hand like he’s going to choke her, but doesnt.

 

Harley unconciously leans into it, her mind still primarily focused on the movie.

 

_She trusts him with every breath she takes._

 

Satisfied with this thought, he lets his attention leave her momentarily to watch the movie along with her.

 

”Now this, is a masterpiece.” he says after a few minutes with wide eyes, right after the nightmare scene where the tiny toaster is attacked by a man with a wicked smile. Harley hums in agreement, blue eyes bright and estatic.

 

”Shoulda won all the oscars.”

 

 


	2. Interruptions and promises

”Right Bosco, I see what you’re getting at. But this time you’ve gone too far, and I’m afraid I don’t want to wear your friendship bracelet anymore.” the joker says, flexing his hand over the gold-tipped cane.

 

This is the last meeting they will every have, because Bosco fucked it up. He took money from the one person he knew he should never ever steal from. But Bosco is stupid, so he thinks he still has a chance to come out of this alive. He smiles, the lipring of gold in his mouth glinting. His friends snigger. They’re stupid too.

 

”Okay Clown, better than fine with me, I can take care of ya.”

 

The Joker inspects his fingernails on one hand. He looks bored.

 

”Tough words to someone who can destroy everything you have in a matter of seconds.”

 

Bosco growls, angry that he isn’t getting the respect he thinks he deserve.

 

”I’m tired of this bullshit. Let’s end this, right here and now.”

 

”It would be my outmost pleasure.”

 

Everyone from each gang cock their guns and point at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Then suddenly, a loud rumbling sound is heard that echoes throughout the large werehouse, and it completely ruins the gunblazing moment they are about to have. And it’s coming directly to his left.

 

The joker looks in that direction and sees nothing out of the ordinary, just Harley clutching her stomach and looking sheepish.

 

”What is it pumpkin?”

 

”Eh, just kind of hungry. But it’s fine, you go ahead and kill ’em. It can wait.”

 

And for a moment, it looks like that’s exactly whats gonna happen, and as he raises his gun once more to fire away bullets everywhere, someone sneezes.

 

It’s Harley, again. Rolling his eyes he snaps his head back to her, where she’s busy wiping her nose on her sleeve, unbothered by having a gun pointed to her head. He won’t kill her of course, but she knows exactly how to stoke his temper.

 

”What now?!”

 

”It’s cold in here.”

 

”So?!”

 

”So, I’m wearing stockings and a t-shirt and it’s like, below freezing in here. I think I’m getting a cold.”

 

”Then, why didn’t you just grab a coat before we left? I think I told you, in fact. But did you listen? ”

 

”Well I wasn’t cold then. I’m cold now. But it’s okay. It’s my own fault.” Harley says, nodding to herself. Usually she never agrees with him during an argument, and it’s throwing him off. He nods at her, wary.

 

”Right.”

 

”Right.”

 

”Are you two done bickering like an old couple so we can get down to business or what??” One of Boscos thugs yell out. 

 

The tension in the room rises again, and he swears to lucifer, he’s nanoseconds away from blasting Boscos head of when someone very loudly opens a bag of snacks, and it is no mystery as to whom that someone is. Growling, he turns to the side and yells at her, munching on her stupid snack.

 

”NOW WHAT?!”

 

Harley blinks, unpertubed.

 

”I found cheetos. They were in the trunk. Want some?”

 

”What happened to that giant box of twizzlers I got you yesterday?!” he asks, exasperated. She shrugs, looking lost in thought.

 

”All gone. Gave them to a homeless man at the train station.”

 

 _Bundy, Lucifer, Manson, give me strengh…._ the joker sighs deeply before taking both her hands in his own, making sure that they have eye contact before he speaks.

 

”Harley. Sweetie. Apple of daddy’s bloodshot eyes – if you’re quiet and good, we’ll go to disneyland.”

 

”You mean it? For real?” Harley shakes with excitement, bouncing up and down.

 

”I swear on it.” _he doesn’t._

 

”Why didn’t you say so!?”

 

Taking the gun from his hand quicker than a cheetah on crack, she manages to kill all of Boscos men (and himself included) so fast that it almost gives him whiplash. But it makes him turned on too, all that blood running down her face. Boscos ear is missing and she spits it out and stomps on it with her boots.

 

With the right motivation, that girl will do anything. He wasn’t really serious about taking her to that damn amusement park, but just like always, she has a way of changing his mind within the blink of an eye.

 

She stares down at Boscos body like some kind of revenge demon, eyes vacant and blurry, body shaking with adrenaline. Then she looks up at him and beams like a kid at christmas.

 

”So, when are we leaving for Disney?”

 

”I’ll book the flight on our way home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Karaoke

 

 

Mark Anderson is the unluckiest man in the world. He’s in a small dark room together with the most frightening man in the world (probably). The green hair shines despite the dark shadows there, and so does the metal in his teeth when he laughs. And he laughs a lot. But as far as Mark can tell, there’s no joke being told.

 

_Yet._

 

The joker looms over him, and Mark starts sweating, his heart pounding like a drum. The joker is holding a knife in his hand, twirling it around threateningly. He shakes his head, like a dissapointed school teacher.

 

”Mr. Anderson, you are forcing me to make a _choice_. It’s not going to be _pretty_ you know. But the night is long and we can take all the time we need. Ah yes, I will make sure that before this delightful night is over, you will have satisfied my _needs_ completely and utterly. I am going to make a choice that will knock your teeth into your eyebrows. I will _choose_ ….”

 

Gasping, Mark closes his eyes as the knife swings down, finding its target…

 

...into the surface of a table, next to a bowl of peanuts.

 

”Billy Joel – the longest time? Nah, too cheesy for a cool guy like you.” The joker mutters to himself, staring down at the laminated karaoke catalogue.

 

Harley narrows her eyes at their guest. Leaning in close to his face and scrutinizing the beads of sweat rolling down his wrinkled forehead. Waits for him to whimper. Anything.

 

He flinches and she tilts back, victorious.

 

”Ricky Martin.” She says, and the Joker continues flipping the pages in the catalogue. He’s standing on top of a white fold-out table. The tiny karaoke room has been rented out to them exclusively. They can sing and dance all night if they want to. There’s a black leather bag in the corner of the room. It’s impossible to tell what’s inside it.Could be rats, ping pong balls, _anything_. A rotating disco ball gives the room an almost etheral glow, and behind them on the wall plays an endless variety of music videos, all ranging from Britney to Sinatra, 50 cent and Marilyn Monroe.

 

”Too pedestrian. How about someone with a little more... _taste_.”

 

As he says this, Harley licks a path down the guys sweaty cheek, and giggles when his eyes bug out at the motion. Joker is watching the movements of her tounge, eyes dark and fixated for a moment on how pink and sweet it looks. She looks up from where she’s sitting next to their guest, who’s tied to a cheap lawn chair – his business suit rumpled and bloody. She looks up at the joker with blue-blue eyes and blinks at him. All around them on the walls are posters of pop stars and fold-outs from adult magazines, doodled on with permanent marker almost violently.

 

Mark guesses that they’ve been here before.

 

”Celine Dion.”

 

The Joker looks back to the folder. He makes a humming sound, tapping a forefinger against his chin.

 

”We’re not just wooing and screwing him Harls, so I don’t think so.”

 

She turns back from him to look at their guest like a predator, cocking her head from side to side. Like she’s considering both wooing and screwing or maybe something else altogether. She squeezes the mans thigh and he shivers, but not out of pleasure.

 

”Michael Jackson.”

 

”No.”

 

”Rolling stones.”

 

”Rolls just right through my head. Why don’t we ask the man in question what he thinks. Hm?”

 

And just like that, Harley rips off the silver tape off Marks mouth in one swift move.

 

The words come stuttering out of him, hurried and breathless.

 

”Look, I really don’t know what you guys want. I’m in accounting, I can get you all the money you want. I promise.”

 

”We are not after that, sweetie. We just wanna know what you like.”

 

”Uh, what I like?”

 

”I bet he likes classical music. What a bonehead.”

 

For a second Mark is just stunned over hearing someone actually use the word bonehead, before the rushing panic and fear for his life comes back to him. Then the joker jumps down from the table and squeezes his jaw in his hand so that his lips are pursed like a fish.

 

”I bet you...are one of those who looooves the opera. Real music bores you to _death_ doesnt it? ”

 

Mark doesn’t answer (because he cant when his jaw is being squeezed like that) and because he’s worried that it might be the wrong answer.

 

But the Joker lets go of him and just gives him this stare that says _talk now_ and so he does.

 

”No, I-I mean I like other stuff too. I like the Beatles. And Garfunkle. And uhm….

 

_Say something,say something, say anything. Something good._

 

”...Bon Jovi.”

 

Uhg.

 

The joker is giving him this _look_ and the woman just stares at him like he just grew an extra head and _he fucked up, he knows he fucked it all up_ with that answer. _Oh my fucking god he can’t die because of this, because of stupid_ _fucking_ _Bon Jovi._ Then the joker throws back his head and barks out a nail on blackboard laugh. The woman smiles like the cat who got the cream. This is so, so bad. He has heard of the Joker and his lady. Knows what it is they do.

 

”Please, don’t kill me.” he begs. Harley smiles at him like she’s some goddamn fairy godmother, bumping her shoulder with his.

 

”Awww, is that what you’re so worked up about? Killing you? Psha, we weren’t even thinking of doing something like that, were we Mr. J?”

 

He’s busy looking through the list of songs again, answers like he’s distracted. Like karaoke is more important right now than anything else.

 

”No, no, no. Not at all – why would we kill our audience when we haven’t even begun entertaining?That would be sooooo tasteless. Bad hosting, really.”

 

”So,so you’ll let me go?”

 

”Not so fast. You haven’t even picked a song yet. Harley, help him pick a song.”

 

”How about this?” she asks and picks up the laminated folder from the table, pushing it into Marks face.

 

A blown up photo of Elvis Presley greets him, the blindingly white tracksuit and goggle glasses. Christ. He can’t see the titles of the songs but he nods anyway.

 

”Yeah, yeah that looks good.”

 

Harley squeals and wiggles beside him with glee as the Joker moves to the karaoke machine to choose the song. She starts clapping her hands with excitement when the music starts up, the first few seconds of Heartbreak hotel instantly recognizable.

 

If someone had told him that he’d be tied up in a chair and watching the most feared criminal boss in Gotham croon and sway to Elvis all night, Mark would probably have told them that they were crazy. He feels a little crazy himself right now.

 

Beyond the layer of paralyzed fear, he can somewhat distantly think that, damn, the joker might be evil and a mass-murderer, but he sure knows how to shake his hips. And his singing voice is not all that bad either. Like Tom Waits heard through a broken washing machine.

 

Beside him, the jokers girlfriend is beside herself, acting like she’s at a big concert, watching her idol. She raps her palms on the table, sways her head to to the music and for all intents and purposes, its almost like it’s just the two of them – and Mark is just a prop that happens to be in the room with them. She looks at the Joker like he is her everything, like he is her god. It’s a little disconcerting to Mark, who can’t for the life of him understand how that works.

 

After the song is over the joker comes and hunkers down on the seat next to him – like they’re buddies. A faceless man wearing an expensive black suit comes into the room with a tray of three drinks. Scotch on the rocks, shirley temple and soda spritzer.

 

”The soda is for you!” Harley says, pushing the glass towards Mark, beaming. There’s a straw in it so he can slurp without using his hands, being tied up and all.

 

”Music is the most...important thing in this world.” The joker says after a moment, staring down into his glass broodingly as Harley drains her shirley temple in one gulp. He’s lost the purple coat and now in his shirtsleeves with his tattooed arms on display, and it’s like coming face to face with a deranged lion.

 

”Do I..do I sing now?” the man asks uncertainly, maybe thinking that the point is to humiliate him and then let him go.

 

Without smiling or even looking at him, the joker claps his hand down on one of his shoulders, shaking him a little. His voice is lower now, raspy and hoarse.

 

”You just sit back and relax as the lady here does her little number. You just watch, it’ll knock you _dead_.”

 

Well, he figures, everything is fine as long as that black bag doesn’t come open. Right?


	4. Playing dress up

In public, they have to wear disguises and make up. It’s weird and uncomfortable.

 

It’s a good thing they don’t have to step out in daylight so often.

 

They’re in Gotham’s central park, waiting for one of their associates spying on the mayor. Something big is being planned for him, so of course they have to make a little effort. She’s wearing a pink dress and kitten heels, blond hair just blonde and not special, like usual. A wide-brimmed straw hat on her head to shield from sunlight.

 

Puddin’ looks weird in his dark brown hair and eyebrows, sitting on a park bench and reading the newspaper in a pale beige suit. She had stared at him, unnerved before he’d sent her off to buy them some ice cream. Strawberry and lemon ginger.

 

Ugh, and she even has to _pay_ for it. Can you believe this shit?

 

Of course, Harley normally loves to play dress up, really she does. But this charade had only been funny the first five minutes or so. At first when the joker had spoken like that, like a NORMAL person, ( _I had ordered a waldorf salad sir, I am late for a meeting at the Plaza and you dare serve me this cholesteral monster!_ ) she’d laughed hard enough to bust a gut. Now it’s just creepy.

 

She comes back with their cones and sit down next to him. He looks up from the paper and looks at the ice cream she’s procured – for a moment he looks at it blankly, like he doesnt know what to do with it or what it even is.

 

One thing the make up can’t do for him is disguising his eyes. Even with contacts, there is something...not quite right about them. They are too intense for the normal facade he’s adopted, and the newspaper serves as a shield to hide behind.

 

Slowly, he takes the offered cone from her hand, closing his hand around it and taking a slow, careful lick while looking at her with dark, playful eyes. She giggles.

 

When their contact shows up, Harley quickly gets bored of the conversation, even though she’s always proud of her puddin’ for the affect he always have on people, regardless of what he looks like. 

 

”I’m having a _special_ party, and I was hoping that the mayor could make it. The hor d'oeuvres will be incredible. ”

 

”That could be arranged sir.”

 

Their conversation drifts away from her when she spots something a few feet away from them. A couple of small children are racing across one of the grassy fields, dragging a kite behind them that floats high up in the sky. There’s about four of them running – two of them look like siblings. Identical blonde heads and rosy cheeks, a boy and a girl.

 

They’ve got freckles running down their arms, and on their cheeks and noses. The girl is wearing a pink playsuit with ruffles and bows, tottering after her brother, who looks to be a year older or so.

 

Harley shivers, the warm summer day suddenly feels cold and strange. There’s a strange vacuum inside her chest, almost where her heart would be. She’s gripping the edge of the bench a little too hard maybe, because a large hand ( a familiar hand) covers hers and she looks down at it.

 

It’s covered in make up and his rings are missing and the nails are too clean.

 

There’s just the two of them now and they’ve done what they came here to do. Now it’s just them looking normal on a park bench, without a purpose. She’s not sure how he’s going to react to what she is thinking – because of course he knows.

 

His peculiar eyes study her, then the children. She’s sure he’s about to reprimand her for spoiling it, ruining the game they have been playing all day. She can see it, how his jaw tenses to reprimand her, to hiss into her ear.

 

But then, for some reason, he doesn’t. It’s like he goes mute when he sees what she sees, out on that field. Maybe it’s the suit, or the make up that has him acting this quiet, this mellow.

 

He stands up abruptly, patting down his suit and checking the cuffs. He offers her his hand.

 

”We’re done here. Lets go look at the penguins.”

 

”Okay.”

 

It’s the finale to their little charade, walking hand in hand together down the gravel road towards the zoo. She’s squeezing his hand perhaps a little too much, but he shows no discomfort. No emotion on his face at all.

 


	5. Shopping

Daddy has a lot of knives. He also has a lot of guns, explosives, surgical drills, scalpels, razors, sabres, handyman tools and bombs. But it’s like grandma always said, you can never have too much of a good thing!

 

So that’s why Frosty is taking us shopping. It’s the same building like last time, this little out of the way boutique down on the docks in this warehouse. Lots of people like us go there to shop too, but when me and my precious go, we’re always the only two customers there – don’t really know why, the staff is superfriendly! The guy with the eye patch (I think he’s french?) always have lollipops.

 

We bring some of the smurfs along as well, at least those that Daddy trusts the most – the others get to stay at home and not have any fun at all.

 

THERE ARE GUNS EVERYWHERE IN THIS PLACE OH MY GOD. They are all stacked neatly on long tables, illuminated from underneath with white light, making them look like divine jewellery. Puddin’ is admiring some nice ancient victorian barber razors, holding one up to the light so that the blade catches on it. I don’t know whats more beautiful in this moment – him or the razor.

 

Nah, who am I kidding – they’re both pretty!

 

I follow obidiently behind him as we move down to another section for hunting rifles and british sounding stuff that have lots of silver in the handles. No way, another one?

 

”But you have so many of these already!” I exclaim, holding a trulock & harris double rifle in my gentle hands. But even as I say it, I can’t help but admire the handiwork on this thing. I can just imagine using this myself, riding on top of a unicorn and charging into the cavallery. My eyes are saucers and he puts his hands on it as well, stroking it like a lover.

 

”You want it.”

 

I do. 

 

Then promptly, he snaps his fingers and the trulock gets bagged into a plastic shopping cart. Yay! 

 

After that we move over to the explosives. They are stored in another room altogether, the walls lined with soundproof material.

 

”In case we have an accident in here.” Eye-patch man says, and he gives me another lollipop. Oh, cherry flavoured!

 

For some reason, the smurfs are a bit jumpy around us in this room. I don’t really understand why. Perhaps they need to go to the bathroom.

 

”What?” I ask them, looking around with a frown. Do I have something on my face? Did I forget to take off that strawberry-fusioned face mask this morning?

 

”The lady asked you a question.” puddin says with his back turned to me, as he inspects a still intact buzz bomb from world war 2 standing innocently next to its four identical brothers. He taps a fingernail against its shell and all of the smurfs hold their breath.

 

I am chewing on a delicious strand of hair and waiting for a response.

 

”Uhm, it’s just that...well, these are bombs. And V-2 rockets. And missiles.” one of them say, warily. 

 

”Yeah?”

 

”And you are….you.”

 

I frown again and tilt my head, blinking. I hear puddin is knock-knocking on something metallic, and the smurfs look like they’re gonna piss their pants, ready to bolt for the door.

 

”I sense there’s a good punchline here, but I’m not seeing it.” I say, shaking my head.

 

Precious growls loudly, frustrated and dissapointed. I feel for him. He looks like a wilted flower, all droopy and gangly. No scratch that – he looks like a sad gorilla. He's heartbroken. 

 

”All of these are sooo broken. This is a bummer. I had been wanting some new fireworks.”

 

A sexy, hot gorilla.My gorilla.

 

He's looking at one of the smurfs now like he's just aching to strangle something. I throw my arms around his muscular back from behind and lean in to talk into his ear, my lipstick leaving a mark on his white neck.

 

”I bet can show you some _real_ fireworks.”

 

 

 


	6. Pets

The other first thing she’d been anxious to see upon going home after prison (not including a hot bath and a large meal) were the babies. _Those perfect little angels._

 

She still remembered getting them, like it was yesterday.

 

Harley was notoriously bad at looking after things. This had been proven fairly accurate after the goldfish incident, as well as the accident with the canary and the spiders. Though to be fair, the spiders had died a noble death, being apart of one of the jokers clever schemes. The hamster was merely unlucky. Really, Francis shouldn't have been anywhere near those jumper cables in the first place. 

 

Of course, this didn’t stop her from wanting to have another pet. A pet that would last.

 

The joker didn’t understand this need. She already had him, after all. What else could she possibly need? Though, through a series of fated events, she eventually got her wish. 

 

Then one morning, she had awoken, massive bed-head and all, to a gigantic cardboard box at the foot of their bed.

  
There were no airholes in the box, and on its side it said _Open me!_ In a hurried, yet familiar black scrawl. Scooting forward on her knees, only clad in a white nightshirt, she carefully opened the box.

 

Blinking against the sudden light, two large iguanas blinked up at her with yellow eyes. One of them hissed softly, scampering out of the box, which tilted to the side on the bed.

 

Now, this needs to be explained. These were not regular iguanas.

 

As much was proven when one of them burped, razorsharp teeth visable in its maw. They were much larger than iguanas usually were, and both had black numbers marked into their hindlegs. Their green scales shifted like flowing water, and when Harley gently touched it, it felt soft and warm. She grinned, enraptured. When she petted it down it’s back, she could feel something like a low growl moving through its chest, and it moved closer to her touch, as if to say _hello there mom._

 

”Hello to you too.”

 

Some time later, the joker stepped by their bedroom to find her on the floor with one of the things on her lap. Well, only half of it could fit on her lap while the rest of it sprawled across the carpeted floor. She was stroking it down its side as it lied with its head on her knee, eyes closed with bliss as its brother stalked around the room, intent on eating the curtains.

 

She looked up at him and gave him her best smile, that warm one that she saved just for them.

 

”This is a really good present, sugar.”

 

”They are beautiful beasts.” he said, nodding. She gasped at him and covered the lizards ears – or where she thought they were.

 

”Not beasts, they are my babies!” she exclaimed, as the other lizard promptly swallowed what remained of the stuffed leather chair in the room before moving on to sniff at his pants. The joker rolled his eyes at her and grunted.

 

”Ugh, of course they are. ”

 

 


	7. Sometimes

Sometimes things are fine. They don’t get on each others nerves and they go about their shared existance like they’ve always been together, like how it also will end this way.

 

She’ll know exactly what will please him, and he will be smug and proud of his creation, his bride of a monster. They’ll share whatever scraps they eat for breakfast in silence. She’ll giggle far too often and he’ll pretend it’s annoying.

 

He pretends not to like the way she scratches at his scalp like a dog, and she’ll show him another design for a new tattoo on her calf that’s in the shape of a white kitty cat – with claws.

 

Then there are the times that are not so good. Not so fine. When their madness boils over, especially if it’s during summer, when the days go on forever and night seems to never come.

 

They get feverish and snipe at each other. It can go on for days like this.

 

She’ll be fine one moment and the next, dragging her head along the dirty carpet floor that’s so like the one in Harleens childhood home, and that makes her think about sad things, dead things that shouldn’t be dead. She’ll throw up and feel awful, and he won’t understand it. He’ll throw her in a chair and try to get her to eat, because she won’t eat at all during that time.

 

She tests him like this. Tries his temper until he snaps, until he orders her to clean up and get it together.

 

But sometimes its not even about her at all. Sometimes he’ll be the one forgetting things. Forgetting that she’s supposed to be his, everlasting. That he’s supposed to like it when she kisses him, and that he isn’t supposed to hit her when she tries to go in for a hug. He just forgets.

 

But they both remember and go together when they make things burst, make things bleed and cower, whimpering at their feet. He’ll be gone in a hole somewhere, working with his tools on some nameless asshole who’ll beg him (or threaten him, if they’re stupid) to let them go. And then, when he’s pulled out the fingernails one by one, and they cry and spit and mewl into his face with a mouth that has been redesigned, emptied and gourged – only then can he suddenly see the resemblence between them and what is _his_.

 

But nobody cries as beautifully as his Harley.

 


	8. Doctor

Harley was lying down on the couch and the doctor was sitting right behind her somewhere in a plush armchair. The sound of a pen scratching away was the only sound for a moment, before he asked her another question.

 

”In our last session you mentioned having nightmares?” his calm, patient voice asked.

 

”Yes.”

 

”Do you want to tell me what they are about?”

 

Harley shifted and looked down at her hands, a little uncomfortable.

 

”Well, they’re about my childhood.”

 

”I see.”

 

”And I get stuck in situations I can’t control. Suddenly I find myself in an argument with my dad, and he punches me.”

 

”He punches you.”

  
”Yes.”

 

Some more scribbling follows this statement, as expected. As he writes, Harley watches a wet spot in the ceiling. It seems to grow bigger.

 

”Please, continue.”

 

”Well, he hits me and then its like – I can’t fight back. It’s like I’m reliving a memory, y’know? ”

 

”He was always a brute to you, I understand.”

 

”Not always, sometimes it was my mother too. And my brothers. I think I was adopted.”

 

”Ah, but it’s normal to feel this way towards family. Just because they treated you badly does not automatically mean that you were not apart of them. This is just wishful thinking no?”

 

Harley laughed a little, hugging herself on the couch.

 

”Yeah, I guess you’re right. But it would be nice if I could stop having these dreams. ”

 

”I can tell you how to make it stop, if you wish.”

 

”How?”

 

”Simple. You must kill them of course. ”

 

”Really? Can I do that?”

 

”You can if I say so.”

 

Harley sat up on the couch and faced her doctor, her face full of relief.

The joker was sitting there, his legs crossed and a notepad on his lap, hands clasped innocently. Her very own miracle worker.

 

”I knew you’d understand!”

 

”Anytime.”


	9. Birthday

 

It’s near pitch black in the room when he wakes from a good dream involving a lot of blood and a pit of snakes. The pale blue light from outside tells him that it must be sometime before dawn.

 

A wind-up toy skitters across the rumpled covers of the bed - white shattering teeth that click-clacks manically. He watches it for a moment through muted, dark eyes.

 

Then he looks straight ahead, and stares.

 

Harley is straddling him, watching him with eager puppy eyes. She’s probably been watching him sleep again. There’s a smudged and lopsided cupcake in her cupped hands, with a single red candle on top. She holds it out to him with that strange mixture of little girl shyness and unbridled glee.

 

”Happy birthday, baby.” she whispers in the quiet, but he can tell that she’d rather scream at the top of her lungs. His eyes bounce from the cupcake then to her, and her very much see-through crop top . Dainty pink nipples pratically begging him to nuzzle and bite into them.

 

”Well, looks like I got what I wished for...” he murmurs, scooting closer to his obvious target, but she wiggles back teasingly on top of him and he turns his head and just looks at her _that way_  but she just swipes a finger in the blue icing, going in for a stolen taste before she hands it to him and reaches for something on the floor.

 

In the process, giving him a nice view of her ass clad in sweatshorts that doesn’t entirely cover up what was underneath. Any lingering bitterness at having been so rudely woken evaporates to dust.

 

She turns back to him on the bed, now holding a big box. A bomb?

 

”I got you the nicest present!” she now screams, which he expected.

 

”Did you now.”

 

Last year she gave him five teletubbies stuffed with red jello, so that when he squeezed them, the jello would burst out of them like pieces of intestines. Then there was the broken tuba, and the dead rat. Good fun that was.The year before that, she gave him socks. Well, he had lost several pairs in the laundry so it was a good present.

 

He takes the pristine box with its red bow from her and removes the lid. A faint smell of something rotten inside. Oh joy. 

 

It’s a hand. Of course it’s a hand.

 

It’s been neatly severed at the wrist with a clean cut, veins and bone inside hardly bleeding. It’s lying on a bed of neatly folded turquoise fabric. The overly long fingernails painted a harsh pink color.

 

”Oh honey, you shouldn’t have.” he says, but he feels quite the opposite of course. That damn news anchor had been talking smack about him for weeks. A tabloid nurtured bitch who dared to call him silly and mediocre. He had been meaning to take care of the matter himself, but more interesting obstacles had presented themselves (the bat, of course).

 

Lifting out the fabric, he realizes it’s the dress that she was wearing on tv, except that it’s ripped and torn beyond belief. Now it’s killer haute couture.

Part of him is angry at her for doing this. For doing something in his place.

 

”Happy Puddin´?” she asks.

 

He looks at her with hard, black eyes that glitter in the dark, gripping her chin in one hand. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, watching her reaction. She doesn’t flinch, she never has, no matter what he does to her. Just watches him right back, anticipating. Calm.

 

In love.

 

He smirks back at her, the darkness in his eyes fading. He leans forward, kisses the corner of her mouth.

 

”Estatic.”

 


	10. Home Improvement aka Mona Lisa's Smile

Downtime was important. It gave Harley some time to practise her acrobatics in the old office supply room that she’d taken for her own in the abandonded building they were currently living in. Maybe not _living_ was the right word though, haunting was more like it.

 

”Honey, have you seen daddy’s tools?” Joker called out to her. 

 

Harley poked her head out from the bathroom, hello kitty toothbrush still in her mouth.

 

”They’re under the sink.” she called out, before getting back to flossing. While she was in there, one of the iguanas were lounging casually in the bathtub, just big enough to fit inside it. It was looking at nothing in particular, a content look on its face.The other iguana was sitting right outside the bathroom door, staring at a cockroach crawling up the wall. The cuties always wanted to stay close to her while she was home.

 

A sudden and random banging sound startled her. Okay, wrong word again. She was merely _surprised_.

 

”Mr J, everything ok out there?”

 

No answer but his strange and loud humming. He seemed to be in a good mood. Oh well.

 

A little while later she walked out of the bathroom and intended to head to her training room, when she was distracted by the wooden crate sitting on the floor. It hadn’t been there earlier. Before she had more time to investigate, a pair of cold, gritty hands covered her eyes from behind.

 

”I have a surprise.” he said, lingering on every word in that strange and careful way he had. Like words were a waste, and his real language was different tones of laughter and screams. She smirked.

 

”Is it a baby bunny?”

 

”Close. Open your eyes and see.”

 

He removed his hands and she obeyed him, opening her eyes wide.

 

Sitting on the floor where the crate had been, was -

 

”A painting?!” she exclaimed, somewhat disappointed. Paintings were for old people and dusty places. Wait, was Mr- J calling her OLD?! And...and BORING? If Harley frown could get any deeper, it could be used as a spoonholder.

 

Oblivious to her internal confusion and irritation, the joker walked around her to tap the old and golden looking frame of the painting in a thoughtful way. He opened a laptop sitting on a low coffee table and logged into skype.

 

”Do you know who that is?” he asked her.

 

”Who?” she asked, still staring at the offending object. Maybe she could get one of the babies to eat it in secret...

 

”Mona Lisa.”

A part of her mind short circuited, hearing the Joker speak another woman’s name in their private living room. So this was it, he was cheating on her. **Th** **at** **bitch**. Her poor puddin trapped in the claws of some terrible wretch! Putting on a unnervingly calm smile, she blinked innocently.

 

”Is she from Brooklyn?” she asked sweetly, already planning which weapons she would pack. The joker merely shrugged and continued fippling with his laptop.

 

”Hmm, why don’t you ask her...”

 

Harley looked around with wild eyes, hands clutched into tight fists.

 

”Is she here?!”

 

”She’s right in front of you.”

 

That’s when she got it. What a weird name for a lady, of course it had to be the woman in the painting. Her puddin would never fall for someone with such brittle eyebrows.

 

”Oh….oh! Haha, silly me. But baby, what is eh she, doing here?”

”Oh I just had my way by Europe last month. That weekend, you remember. I picked something up. ”

 

One aggressive click on the laptop keyboard later, and the face of a very distressed police captain popped up on screen. He had a curling black moustache.

 

”Le Joker! Mon dieu, I swear on my life, if that painting is tampered with in any way...”

 

joker closed his eyes and shook his head, waving a finger at the screen.

 

”Tut, tut, tut. Relax, monsieur, relax. I have it here see?” he said, gesturing to the painting behind him. The captain let out a sigh of relief.

 

”We have already sent the ransom you requested. 3 million dollars were deposited into the account you specified. ”he said, dabbing his sweaty forehead. Joker nodded slowly, looking at his newly filled bank account on one of his phones.

 

”Yes, yes...so I’ve noticed. You’ve been such a good man. ”

 

”When will we get her back?”

 

”Oh Mona? You don’t want her. You really don’t. She smells. Reeks really.”

 

”Joker! You promised me!”

 

”Did I? Of course I did. I promised that I’d take good care of her. Be gentle. And I have been so gentle, monsieur. It’s really quite taxing.”

 

”Do you have new demands? If so, tell me and we can work something out. Please.”

 

Joker reaches out, touches the painted smile on the canvas slowly and hums to himself. Then stopping, he leand forward with his ear cupped against it, as if listening to something.

 

”What is that? Oh, you’re tired of that place, aren’t you? That’s what I suspected, you saucy minx. Those highbrowed people don’t let you have any fun behind that plastic cage of yours, do they? People stare at you all day, but none of them talks to you, or makes you laugh, do they? They don’t know you like I do….Is that a pink slip you’re wearing?”

 

”Joker! Are you listening to me?”

 

”I’m listening, and what’s more, I’ve decided that the deal is off. Miss Mona and I are going to have some fun now. Bye bye, professor. ”

 

Blood draining from his face, the police captain made one last attempt to reason with the madman, reaching out his hand, trying to keep Joker talking.

 

”No! Wait-”

 

Before the man could finish, Joker had slapped the laptop shut and thus finished the conversation. It was quiet in the room for a moment until Harley couldn’t take it anymore.

 

”Soooooo...what are you gonna do with it?” she asked, staring at it from her position on the couch, legs indian style. Joker looked at her with mock surprise, putting one hand dramatically to his chest and gasping. 

 

”Do with it? I’m going to put it up above the mantlepiece.”

 

”You’re gonna hang that, _here?_ ” she asked, looking mortified at the idea. Joker shrugged, black eyes bottomless and glittering. 

 

”Why not?”

 

”Errr, nothing. You go right ahead. I think I’m gonna go train for a bit.”

 

While the training room was a few doors down from the living room, the walls were pretty thin and you could hear what was going on anywhere pretty easily. She was doing a simple arabesque while balancing on a pole when she heard banging again. This time it sounded like hammer and nail, rather than an actual gunshot, like before. Which was more aggravating, because it meant that he actually was putting up that damn thing on the wall. _Fuck, and I thought he was joking._

 

After taking a deep breath and putting it away from her mind, she continued her training. She could always drop the thing in acid when Joker was asleep.

 

But only after five minutes or so, there was more banging. Wasn’t he happy with the way it hung? The banging continued well over 20 minutes, and finally she was so fed up with the noise she had to go and check out what was going on.

 

When she came in, he was standing with his back to her and blocking the sight of the painting. _Oh, he had taken his shirt off. At least there’s some silver lining in this scenario._

 

”Puddin, look, I know you like it when things go boom, crash and bang – and normally it would really turn me on, but I’m trying to flex some muscle here!”

 

He walked over to her hurridly, hammer still in hand. He coverd her mouth with his hands, shushing her like someone would to a small child.

 

”Baby, baby, _baby_ don’t be upset. I have _another_ surprise!”

 

”Well it better be a good one because-”

 

He stepped back and let her see what he had done. Her eyes boggled out of her head. Almost literally.

 

He had given the ”classic and timeless” painting a fabulous make over!

 

All that banging had been him putting in nails into Mona lisas mouth, giving her a similar metallic grin akin to Joker’s own. She had been given crudely doodled and messy pigtails with a black marker, and a small black heart on one of her cheeks. It was wonderful.

 

”That’s perfect!” she said, staring at it with a newfound appriciation. Joker came to stand beside her, fingers of one hand playfully walking up her arm.

 

”Looks more like you.” he said, bopping her on the nose affectionatly.


	11. Pain

These are things she thinks about when he tells her to eat up the bottle he just smashed to the floor.

 

And no, it’s not a metaphor.

 

Kneeling on the floor, crawling like a stripper towards the pieces. Taking her prize.

 

She's chewing on pieces of green glass, the sharp edges cutting the roof of her mouth. Its not the first time she's done something like this and contrary to popular belief, not as bad as it sounds. Not just any girl would do this to impress a man. its painful and she might get hurt, but that’s nothing new for her.

 

So maybe it'll end in a trip to some unlicensed doctor in the suburbs who'll pump out her stomach. At least thats more convinent than going to a regular clinic where she'll have to explain why she tried to drill a hole through her palm or draw a flower on her arm with a nailgun. The doctors, the media, their friends, they all think she’s under his thumb. That he forces her to do these things. 

 

Wouldn’t they be surprised at all the things she does to herself when nobody is looking. Maybe, if they knew, they wouldn’t put all the blame on him.

 

As she fails to swallow the third piece of glass (too big) she has to spit it out on the floor, where it lands, coated with blood. She falls over punchdrunk, giggling.

 

He slaps her hard across the face and a string of blood lands on the floor. But her laughter doesn’t stop as he breathes hard above her, this time watching to make sure she finishes. 

Suddenly she launches over the rest of the pieces and puts them all in her mouth, like they're candy. As she chews and swallos them one by one, she can hear the familiar voice of Harleen in her head. She’s analyzing the situation, using words such as _Stockholm syndrome, acute schitzofrenia, abusive._ Hah! Shows what she knows, doesn’t it?

 

Harleen never saw the beauty of it did she? No, never saw much beauty anywhere. Back then it was mellow radio station or static, now it’s all technicolor, rock’n roll. Her hair is blue and red because those were the first colors that she saw when she was reborn, swimming in them together with her beloved.

 

Happiness is not just gentle embraces and sweet nothings. It can also be in this dark room with bare walls, with painful squeezes and dark fairy tales. There is a myriad of possibilites in the pain that normal people could never know.

 

 


	12. Another me

 

”Damn!”

 

 _See, this is why its a bad idea to work the night shift at the hospital. The fucking commute_ _in this city_ _is terrible and with the salary we’re getting, we can’t exactly afford a car._ Her blonde hair which had been glossy and neat earlier that evening was now hanging around her face in limp curls, her tight bun undone after many hours of hard work at the clinic.

 

Three years ago, back when Arkham had closed down due to financial difficulties, she had given up on her career towards becoming a psychologist and switched goals. But clearly, she hadn’t thought about how much more money a shrink earned compared to what she did now. She had become one of the many nurses stationed at gotham central clinic, though challenging and gratifying, did not offer much of a paycheck.

 

Harleens red kitten heels slowed to a halt on the train platform. The train ricketing away, just out of sight. Adjusting the black frames on her face, she squinted at the train schedule on the wall. She was the only person left on the platform. Of course she’d missed the last train for the night.

 

She was just about to resign herself to another costy ride with a cab, pulling out her cell to make the call when there was a weird gasp coming from her left.

 

Mentally noting where her can of mace was in her handbag, she faced the noise cautiously. _See, this is another reason why it’s bad to do night shifts._

 

Stumbling out from behind a few garbage cans was a man, holding his side with a pained grimace on his face. Under the dark jacket he wore, his blue dress shirt was soaked with blood.

 

Oh shit.

 

Making a choise that was not so much a choice but rather pure medical instinct, she rushed to the man’s side.

 

”Sir, I’m a doctor. Let me take you to the nearest hospital so we can-”

 

a flash of something bad, dangerous in his eyes, his teeth gritted. She flinched, but only a little.

 

”No hospitals, can’t. ” he grunted.

 

”Yeah but-”

 

Then she saw the gunholster around his chest, and immidiately shut up. And began thinking. She couldn’t exactly abandon him, even though he clearly seemed to be part of something shady. Where to bring him…

 

She snapped her fingers.

 

”Ah, I know. I’ll take you to granny’s.”

 

The man’s lips twitched into a pained grin.

 

”That sounds like a bad idea.”

 

”Oh, it’s not like that. It’s just the name of a vetrinary clinic.”

 

”I’m waiting for the punchline.”

 

”Well, I’ve got the keys.”

 

”Fair enough.”

* * *

 

Luckily, the vet place wasn’t too far away from the train station, so off they went.

 

”Here, lean on me. It’s ok. We’re gonna patch you up.”

 

The man grunted through the pain, not being able to speak much. Despite being stabbed and kinda dirtied up, he was wearing an expensive tailored suit and his dirty brown hair was slicked back stylishly. He was heavy on her shoulder, and smelled like sweat and cologne.

 

Noticing but not meaning to, she saw the end tail of a black tattoo at his neck, the rest hidden by the jacket and his shirt.

 

_Down girl, you can take note of his tattoo later, when he’s not bleeding out in the street._

 

They made their way to the destination without any major hiccups, since nobody was around at this time of night. Once inside the clinic, she ushered him inside one of the operating rooms, the place smelling like fur, dog biscuits and disinfectant. She began looking around for the necessary equipment in the room. She purposfully left almost all the lights off, except for a small desk light in the corner of the room. Better not to alert any security guards.

 

”Sit on the table.” she told him.

 

He hissed as he sat down, hands gripping the edges of the steel table.

 

”Okay, now take off your shirt.”

 

As she put on rubber gloves, she noticed that he was having some difficulty doing this. Ah, the gun strap.

 

”Wait, here – let me.”

 

As she assisted him in removing the strap and his shirt, he stared at her with warm, emerald eyes. She noticed his gaze and stopped for a second, analyzing. She huffed a little, tired.

 

”No I don’t care what your profession is. I’m a doctor. I’m more interested in hearts and bones, that kinda thing.”

 

”And flesh?” he asked, smirking. He was now stripped off his shirt, and wow he was way more muscular than she could have imagined. And that tattoo….

 

She snapped on the gloves and cleared her throat awkwardly, turning her back on him momentarily to get the surgical tools needed. He looks strangely at home amongst the gas tubes and the metal pans. 

 

”Er, well yes. That too.”

 

It was quiet for a moment as she collected and steralized everything she needed, putting it all on a small tray. To fill the quiet, he began talking.

 

”So, doctor. Why out so late?” he asked, sounding much more put together. She took the tray over to the medical slab and put it next to him, raising her eyebrows.

 

”You’re bleeding out in the street and now all of a sudden you’re chatty?”

 

He shrugged.

 

”Keeps my mind off the pain. ”

”Well if you must know, I had just gotten off my shift. ” she said, beginning to clean up the wound, focusing on what needed to be done. Luckily, it didn’t look too deep.

 

”And then I came along and ruined it for you. ” he said, hissing a little as the disinfectant seeped into the wound. 

 

”Mind just telling me what you were up to, to get this wound? Hold that compressor down while I get the anastethic. ”

 

”I was out on a job. It went a little... _wrong_.”

 

Maybe it was the late hour, but her beside manner seemed to have leapt out the window. 

 

”Well, _clearly_. Hold still.”

 

”I _am_.” he says petulantly, which makes her smile involuntarily, her cherry red lips creating dimples. 

 

” No you’re not. You’re wiggling.”

 

”You’re hot.” he says and stares at her.

The directness of it throws her off a little, even though a thousand guys have said this to her before - no joke. But with this guy, she's suddenly a shrinking violet. Instead of saying something coy, she just blushes beet red and stutters. 

 

”You’re...gonna need stitches.”

 

It was not that she wasn’t attracted to this guy. To say otherwize would be a lie. It was just that, at 4 am it she was not really looking to hook up with Gotham’s finest in hired henchmen.

 

Besides, he had completely ruined her overcoat, which was now soaked with blood. Great. She just about done stitching him up when he starts wiggling again.

 

”Hey, wanna see a magic trick?”

 

”I don’t think that-”

 

So fast she almost doesn’t catch it , he pulls a quarter from behind her ear. His hand against the side of her face jolts her into meeting his gaze, which is strangely intimate. Captivating.

 

They just stare into each others eyes for the longest time without saying anything. It’s one of those things that can only happen in the middle of the night in an abandoned pet hospital. She doesn't even know his name. 

 

Which is why it doesn’t surprise her when she hears herself say:

 

”I think we should date. Sometime. ”

 

”What a coincidence, so do I.”

 

 


	13. Pink Hotel Massacre

Somewhere between L.A and Vegas, Joker starts complaining about having nothing to do. This comes as a surprise to his henchmen, because he’s been so adamant about getting to their destination on time. Even threatened them a little extra, one of them dead this morning by drowning in his bathtub. He doesn’t talk about this complaint like a normal person. Instead he just lays a hand on Harley’s thigh next to him and stares out the window as if he’s getting ready to dive out of it, his eyes translucent against the searing light. She looks down at his hand and looks up at his face with concern, looking at him as if searching for the familiar symtoms of sunstroke. He’s got pink little flamingos and palm trees on the shirt he’s wearing, as if dressed for a vacation.

Outside, the sun is still high in the sky, and they still have a few hours of travelling left. The desert is mocking them, Joker decides.

Smoothing down her gold sequined dress, she clears her throat before moving her rosy sunglasses away from her face, leaning forward to talk to the driver. There’s a glint in her eyes that the henchmen know is a dangerous sign. They have to take a detour. Cold sweat breaks out on the driver's forehead, yet he doesn't dare protest.

Once off the highway, they drive for about half an hour in the desert until they come along a roadside motel. Harley tells the driver to stop. The motel is cheap looking and ordinary, pink and peach colored walls. A dreamy castle. A delipitated pool at the back that looks suprisingly clean but nobody is swimming in it today.

A little kid watches them arrive from a second floor balcony, staring vacantly. Mother busy working inside one of the rooms, moaning loudly through the window.

Joker is still sitting in the backseat while the others get out, his head between his knees. Sweating but not from the heat. Putting on her sunglasses again, Harley steps out and goes to open the trunk. She rummages around in a large black bag for his favorite toys. She walks back around to him, holding the golden sceptre, his favorite pick of the bunch.

Even though this is all normal to them, there's a dryness to the air and there's just something a little bleak about the situation. To a bystander, what would follow in the next 26 minutes can only be described as a massacre of 50 innocent people. The batman will be investigating and they will be long gone by then.

Joker fingers the gun in his hands and meets her gaze. Warm and positive, always.

"Let's go inside and have some fun." she says, like a doting mother, like the therapist she was so many eons ago.

She always know just what to say.


	14. Toyland

When she can’t come wherever he’s going, she can usually keep herself occupied. It’s one of her major talents.

 

Depending on where they’re staying, and what sort of treasures there are to be found (or what he brings back to her after those blips of fist fights, broken crayons and hisses between them).

 

The toy factory was one of her favorite places. He was so creative and wonderful there, as he is everywhere – but there was something even more different about them in that palace of painted dollies and puppets hanging from white strings in the ceiling. 

 

They made love in the most interesting places, or right there at the concrete floor littered with plastic beads, fake grass and plastic swords and little sequined dresses, chocolate wrapped in golden coins.

 

There was a stage drop for a children’s theatre of Venice, and they used to hide between the folds there, she’d pretend to be an angry wife who had to be cajoled and coaxed out of hiding – there was no blue skies of course, but the pitch black ceiling might as well have been a moonless one.

 

There had been a swing set put over their bed, where she used to dangle like a spider, looking down on her beloved as he slept, and she was always fascinated by his closed eyelids, his shallow breaths and the way he gripped at his side for something that should be there but wasn’t.

 

When she was alone, she would borrow one of the costumes meant for children, a ballerina skirt that rode high on her legs but looked wonderful on her as she danced for whomever was around – the henchmen were encouraged to clap but not to whistle. If they whistled they lost something.

 

At one such event, she was just turning, intending to make a final dramatic spin when he stepped out from nowhere and caught her from behind, leaning in to breathe at her neck, grabbing her about the waist and spinning her away from sight and into his aligned world of soft and sharp, dangerously hungry and she had sighed, giving in happily.

 


	15. Swimming

The house this time is new. Someone did not pay him the respect he deserves, and now the house (big, white, expensive) is theirs for awhile. There’s plenty of rooms, a jacuzzi, two garages and a kitchen larger than the rest of the house. Gleaming tiles and polished marble.

 

The first thing the henchmen do is closing all the curtains and put up CCTV cameras, at least more than there already was.

 

Harley dumps her dufflebag at the entrance and runs around the place like an excited kid as Joker still pokes and prods the corpse still lying on the living room floor, blood seeping into the beige carpet.

 

She checks up the second floor first, hello kitty knife at the ready, lest there should be any unwanted surprises.

 

Later, sliding down the dark wood banister of the stairs and intent on checking out the rest of the rooms, she passes by a glass door leading to the tiny lawn at the back of the house. She stops for a second to look at it through the window, but her happy go lucky smile freezes as she spots the swimming pool. Shuddering, she moves away from the glass and rubs at her upper arms, as if suddenly cold but not knowing really why.

 

Joker is chewing on a carrot like Bugs Bunny, hunkering over one of the diamond cut kitchen counters that looks straight out of Home and Gardens. His face looks shadowed and his eyes hard, void of depth.

 

Michaels (former owner of house) severed head has been put in the blender, for later amusements.

 

Initally though, Joker had wanted to put Michaels snowy white poodle into the oven – which is crazy, because J likes poodles and dogs and puppies. But his moods are so shifting, and the poodle had been just too convinient.

 

It had taken some pouting, but Joker had eventually given up on the dog and instead moved on to torture its master.

 

As Harley passes him buy to take a look in the fridge for a snack, she can feel his eyes on her back. Any other person would find it chilling to be under such scrutiny. She however, never does.

 

”Is there any...juice?”

 

”Hm, yeah, looks like.”

 

She fixes him his usual favorite – his medication (copious amounts of questionable pills) mixed with pure vodka and orange juice.

 

”So, what do you think?” he asks, throwing out his hand to gesture to their surroundings.

 

”Of what Puddin?”  


”This. The house..”

 

She’s confused by this question. He has never asked her this before – and there hasn’t been any need to. Wherever he is, she will go – the location never matters. Shaking her head slightly to herself, she closes in on him, snaking her arms up around his neck.

 

”What do you mean? It’s got beds, food...perfect really.” she says, shrugging.

 

”And a pool.” he says, voice deeper, eyes looking down, his dark lashes fanned against chalky white skin. She frowns, looks away, thoughtful – maybe scared. Though she’d never admit that last part.

 

”Yeah...”

 

He brings her face back to him, his gritty fingers on her throat. He looks serious and normal, concerned. But it floats away mere moments later, the grin and wide eyes stealing over his face.

 

”Sweets, did you really think I was going to forget? This was _not_ a... coincidence.”

 

Turning away from him, ashamed because of that failure, which led her to their separation…why does he have to know her so well?

 

”I think I..I think my meds are acting up. I think I need a nap.”

 

”Don’t take the left side of the-”

 

”I know, I know, that’s where you’ll be.”

 

* * *

 

She wakes up later to the sounds of water splashing from outside.

 

The bedroom has a large balcony overlooking the back of the house and the garden, and she walks out on it to see someone swimming in the pool. Clothes lie strewn about on a lawn chair, purple vest and dark slacks.

 

He’s doing laps in the water, and he’s very naked.

 

Joker looks at home in the water, like something reptilian who’s meant to belong there – there’s something about that which reminds her of Croc. His tattoos and scars become scales underneath the water, blurred and exotic.

 

A funny tickle in the back of her head reminds her that, she was indeed born this way, submerged deep into a thick river – and so was he.

 

And what did he do, when she didn’t come up for air? He fished her out. He did.

 

(not that one time though, but that was her fault – entirely hers)

* * *

When she comes down and opens the door leading out on the patio, he smirks a little to himself. Knew she would come.

 

He holds out his arms for her in the shallow end, his dark makeup and red lipstick running down his face, green hair dark and limp – he looks like some sort of sea monster ready to snatch babies and virgin mary’s.

 

”Pumpkin. C’mere, and let daddy help you do it right.”

 


	16. Disneyland

Against his own expectations, Harley had been acting with a suprising amount of decorum during the entire duration of the plane ride. It was strange, considering what their destination was.

 

Flying commercial was of course, way out of the question, and a private jet was hardly a chore to come by for him. Just kill the pilot and exchange for your very own, tailored assassin/selfmade pilot!

 

He’d installed the tickets to the park in the breast pocket of his purple jacket, and refused everytime she had asked to look at them, as he knew that she’d either slobber all over them or accidentally ruin them somehow – after all, she was so terribly clumsy with papers and numbers.

 

He had started on his disguise when they were 20,000 feet in the air, covering his complextion with a more normal skintone. His tattoos were hidden beneath cover-up and powder, his hair sprayed with a temporary black dye.

 

He glanced over at Harley, who had fallen asleep and was snoring up a storm.

* * *

Right in time for landing, they were both looking _faux normale_ – her in grey joggers and a comfy pink sweater and him in similar traveling clothes, except for a dark and glossy leather jacket he’d draped over her shoulders.

 

He gave Harley another quick glance – nope, still calm. Just scrolling through her phone, looking at pictures of beheaded kittens and latex dildos. It was getting a little eerie. Not the latex or the kittens mind, but the fact that she wasn’t hyperventilating by the mere sight of the welcoming sign as they stepped out of the airport, covered with disney characters, glitter and sunshine.

 

When would the seizures of happiness come, he wondered. With a mixture of excitement and tantalizing dread, he followed her with heavy steps to their taxi.

* * *

They dropped their bags in their room at the fairytale castle hotel, and on their way down to the lobby they were viciously attacked by Goofy, jumping out from out of nowhere and waving jazzy hands at them, staring with his big, lifeless eyes. Not even belzebub himself could be a more horrifying sight.

 

 _Really, it’s just an inanimate skin of a dog worn by a sweaty, underpaid college graduate._ But Joker was SURE that this would be the trigger to Harleys inevitable explosion of glee- the orgasm of disney induced delirium.

 

But she just blinked once and stared at Goofy as if she wished he’d drop dead. _Well, we both do, sweet thing._

 

* * *

To think that his best creation was also one of his greatest conundrums. Still to this day, even though he knew her inside and out, there were still instances where, he wasn’t quite sure what could set her off. (or turn her on, but that’s a totally different story)

 

They had just taken a short break away from street parades, balloon hats and talking animals and were sitting in the shade next to a frog pond, eating ice cream when-

 

he looked over to where she had been sitting, only to find that she was no longer there. Ice cream, but no Harley Harleen Doctor Quinn Quinzel.

 

Hazelnutty goodness – but no bleached and insane hellbent martian-angel.

 

Something often thought dead and forgotten inside him suddenly jumped against his ribcage in alarm.

 

**What. The. Fuck.**

 

He stood up abruptly from the pale pink table, his chair dangerously rocketing backwards as he looked around. Teeth gnashing. He beckoned one of his two henchmen over, and when he was close enough so that nobody else would notice, he took the mans shirt by the lapel and dragged him close enough to his own face to that he could talk like he was himself and not someone who publically visited a childrens amusement park.

 

”Carl. Where is she?” he hissed. Carl looked panicky, and worse -guilty.

 

”Uhh.”

Joker could feel his gaze go red and his body go rigid with rage. If it weren't for their surroundings, Carl would be a wet, sloppy ribbon of flesh on the pavement right now. 

 

”You were supposed to be watching her. I even warned you to never take your eyes off her, didn’t ?”

 

It was safe to say that after their overtly long separation, Joker was exrtremely cautious about the whereabouts of his queen. He had given her six (no, seven) different cell phones – all of which to keep track of her at all times of the day. She had lost five of those already. _But Puddin, I just wanted to take a bath with it, I didn’t know it could DROWN like that, honest!_

 

Yep, she was his greatest creation alright.

* * *

Seriously, where the fuck was she. This was a park built for children. And yet, it was suprisingly difficult to navigate!

 

And that ice cream wasn’t cheap either.

 

They had been searching for almost half an hour without result. Deciding to split up, the two henchmen had disappeared past the magic kingdom as Joker stayed near Main street, skulking around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

 

He should never have agreed to this. Why had he let her have her way?!

 

This was not the way it was supposed to work. He was supposed to be the one manipulating her for crying out loud! This was farce. This was humiliating. This was…

 

A very familiar giggling drifted past his ears over the sound of other visitors, and he nearly stumbled over his own feet at the sound.

 

His eyes tried to trace the source, and then finally he spotted her.

 

Oh so calmly, he reached for the phone in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

She answered on the third ring.

 

”Hey Puddin, what’s up?”

 

”What’s up? Well you, apparently.”

 

Somehow, Harley had completely forgotten about the promise she had made to him about keeping a low profile, as she was currently climbing to the top of Tarzans treehouse in the middle of the magic kingdom. Thank god noboby else had yet to notice her dangling like a suicidal monkey.

 

”Oh my god – is that someone climbing up the treehouse?” a random person cried out next to him.

 

Oh, she was going to pay for this. Gnashing his teeth loudly, he momentarily closed his eyes and mentally sacrificed a goat to whatever hellish deity could save him out of this situation.

 

”Harleykins – if you don’t get your butt down from there in three seconds, Daddy will be very angry with you.”

 

He could see her waving at him from high up in the tree, and dear god – of course she was also wearing gigantic infloatable mickey gloves.

 

”But the view from here is spectacular puddin’! I can even see the ocean!”

 

”Whatever you’re seeing is decidedly not the ocean, you’re just hallucinating again. ”

 

”Oh, don’t be such a party pooper!”

 

”Harls, I am very serious when I say that, if you don’t start climbing down that thing in three seconds, I will most certainly maim you.”

 

”That’s not even logical, how can you maim me if I’m still in the tree?”

 

”Believe me, I will find a way. Now...”

 

Before he continued whatever he was going to say, he looked around to see if his henchmen was nearby. They weren’t. Sighing, he used the one word in his vocabulary that literary hurt to use.

 

”... _please_ , get down and I’ll buy you another ice cream.”

 

”……..”

 

”And yes, we’ll go meet Dumbo the elephant.”

 

”I’ll be right down!"


	17. Cracks

 

At first she was boring him. Just like all the other doctors, she was.

 

She would wait for him to talk ”whenever you’re ready, Mr Joker.” and he would say nothing.

 

She hadn’t noticed the cracks running down the walls of the room just yet.

 

But she would, once _she_ was ready.

 

* * *

 

 

Doctor Quinzel had been quietly there at the other side of the desk, writing something down as another hour in silence passed them by.

 

They’d talked a little before, but this time was just like those earlier sessions – where she would wait and he’d pretend like she didn’t exist.

 

She knew he was pretending, because he’d look at her from under his lashes from time to time, aware of her.

 

Ouinzel figured it had to be the medication screwing with his head, making him tired and listless. His head lolled against his chest against the restraints, slumped down in the metal chair. She couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not, not stupid enough to go near enough to check. There were rules to keep her and the other doctors safe. Rules not meant to be broken. She was in the middle of solving a crossword puzzle (sneaked in from her office) when his head suddenly swiveled up, eyes blinking at her. Predator eyes.

 

She inhaled sharply, trying to contain her fear (excitement?) of the patient being awake. Crossing her legs once, twice. He sniffed.

 

”Did you...are you alright?” she finally asked him.

 

He licked his lips slowly, eyes zooming in on her. His gaze was so intense that she quickly looked away, feeling stupid for asking that.

 

Clearing her throat, she was going to ask him a more important question, more related to his lack of sleep, when he beat her to it. It was always interesting to hear him speak, since it was rare.

 

But today felt different. There was something different, now.

 

He was eyeing the gray metal table between them oddly before he spoke. There was a divider on it made out of white tape, going down the middle. He sighed, and it sounded rusty.

 

”Oh doc, I have been having such strange dreams lately.”

 

She perked up in her seat, the psychiatrist eager to help her patient.

 

”Really? Dreams?”

 

He nodded insistantly. ” Its hard to get the things you want in here. You remember what I told you about Tabby the cat?”

 

”The one your dad...killed?” she couldnt bear to say what he had done in detail, boiled it on the stove in hot water, like something out of Fatal Attraction.

 

He looked out the window at the bleak view of the barracks and the exercise area, looking completely unfazed by the memory of the cat.

 

”Hard to take care of a kitty in a place like this, you know? Anyway, I have been having dreams, this one dream in particular, about something I really do want, _need_...”

 

Oh, this again.

 

This wasn’t the first time the Joker had asked for something, and it was probably going to be something ridiculous. Like a lawn mower or a bottle of purple ketchup. Quinzel highlighted something in her notebook before answering patiently.

 

”I see. What was it that you needed?”

 

There was a slight pause before he answered.

 

”You.”

 

She stopped writing with a jolt and looked up at him.

 

”Uhm, me?” she asked, laughing nervously. 

 

But the Joker didn’t laugh. He leaned his head to the side and just looked at her. He had never looked at her like this before, not that she could remember. It wasn’t unheard of for patients at the asylum to flirt, but the Joker?

 

It made her stomach feel odd, yet not unpleasant.

 

”I would like to tell you exactly, what it is that has me so... _tormented_. Would you allow me to tell you that?” he asked, his voice very quiet, soft.

 

Not really knowing how to answer, she simply nodded.

 

”You’ve been watching me sleep. Through the cameras, tsk tsk. That’s creepy doc. Very creepy. But let me tell you, I kinda like it. It’s _dirty_.”

 

Quinzel quirked an eyebrow at him, smirking. But inside, she was freaking out. How could he have known she had done that? Information sure travelled fast in this place.

 

”I can assure you, that was done only for medical purposes. ” A lie.

 

”That’s too bad. It would have helped if you felt the same way _I do._ ”

 

The reasonable thing would have been to shrug it off and ask him something else, change the subject. Instead she leaned forward a bit in her seat, flicking the pen in her hand methodically against the notepad. Her eyes looked darker, bolder.

 

”And how...do you feel?”

 

”See, Sometimes, when you’re here and I pretend to go elsewhere, I am imagining the things I’d like to do to you right here. On the table.”

 

Quinzels sharpened pencil rolled quietly out of her hand and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

 

”Things.” she said, voice carefully neutral. Eyes unblinking.

 

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, his whole frame suddenly a lot closer. Swallowing up her perfectly narrow world and making it bigger. It felt good.

 

His lips were chapped, rough. He was staring at her collarbone, exposed.

 

”Yes, things. In my dream there are no rules. Which is so good, because it means I get to taste all of _you_. I get to watch _you_ , not being able to move as I make you go all red for me, over and over. I make sure you know exactly how naughty you've been.”

 

He probably meant that he was hurting her, in the dream. But the way he said it implied anything but. It was the way he said it that was making it difficult to move away.

 

Her hair fell softly over one shoulder, and her fingers felt the ridge of the divider on the table, knowing she had crossed it.

 

”That’s some dream. Was there any pain?”

 

”Oh yes, there was pain. Your scream echoed. Pinned me.”

 

Almost like she was doing right now. Her eyes on his lips and him angling towards her face upwards, eyes starlight and mercury.

* * *

 

There were a lot of cracks now. At any given moment, the room would cease to exist.

 

And reveal the real world to her, at last. 

 

 


	18. Prison

It wasn’t so bad, being stuck in a cage.

 

It was almost like being apart of a circus, and she was one of the exotic animals that needed to be kept, shielded. Like the beautiful doe in the fairy tale who starved in captivity, until it was reunited with its beloved. 

 

Harley stretched her legs on the hard concrete floor, eyes watching the prison guards patrolling the courtyard in which she was being held. She watched them with a keeness mostly reserved for playful kittens, but one would be making a big mistake in thinking her that innocent.

 

The guards had already learned, and so nobody didn’t dare come near her. Not unless they sedated her first. 

 

In the beginning, they had been so gullible. She was so cute, body lithe and bones so slight, it was impossible to think that she could hurt a fly.

 

She had been having so much fun then, making them come to her. She had several tricks up her sleeve, and more still.

 

Her favorite one was to whisper a secret in their ear, and when they were close enough, bite off an ear, or if they wanted a kiss, their lips as well.

 

A lot of them wanted her. Even when she struggled, they wanted her. _Just like puddin' wants me._

 

But Harley never even blinked when she was strapped down, forced. And even if they got what they wanted, not an inch of her was violated.

 

She was already so high above it all, in a place where such people couldn’t touch her, couldn’t nick or leave a mark on her.

 

She only drummed her fingers against her thigh, counting them and recalling their names for later.

 

Because _someone_  needs more people on his hit-list, doesn’t he?

 

 


	19. magic mistake

Enchantress was gifted. She could weave dreams out of your deepest desires and make it seem like they were very real.

 

And while it was easy to cunjure them, only the recipient could interpret the dream according to their own hearts desires.

 

In most cases, Enchantress knew exactly what the person would see, feel, hear.

 

But sometimes, like a jumpy radio signal, the dream would shift and turn into something else.

 

* * *

The first thing she was aware of, was that she was very small. She was being held by someone with gentle hands, spinning her around in a circle as she laughed, wearing a pale blue sundress and white sunday shoes.

 

They were somewhere nice – in a garden.

 

There was a mother somewhere in the background lighting the candles on a cake with a plastic red lipstick smile on her face, poodle skirt reaching her prim ankles. Her eyes were hidden from view by a large straw hat, the skin underneath alarmingly pale.

 

They were in a very nice backyard of a very nice white house with a picket fence. The man who was spinning her 7 year old self around was familiar, and yet she could not quite grasp it.

 

She could only marvel at their smiles.

* * *

They were a family, sitting down for breakfast to eat and she had a little brother named Tom.

The mother was a faceless blur, someone bustling about in the background, making pancakes on the stove while Peggy Lee sang through the static on the radio.

 

Daddy chucked her on the chin and fed her a spoonful of sugar. It tasted of metal and copper, sticky sweet on her tounge.

* * *

 

on the weekends her mother would change into something harsh and mean, slapping her for the smallest step out of line and there would be no pancakes for breakfast. _There was something familiar in the harsh lines around her strained mouth, her eyes like pins._

 

And then he would appear, her savior. Daddy.

 

He’d pick up the pieces and set things right. He would make the pancakes and he would pick her up and hold her to him fiercly and tell her how she and her brother were the most precious things in his life, and that he would make sure that nothing ever harmed them again.

 

* * *

They would go to the carnival on her birthday, just the two of them. He would carry her on his shoulders when she got tired. He’d win every carney game if he got to use a gun – he had always been a good shot. A war hero with medals decorating his chest on the fourth of july.

 

She would beg to ride the roller coasters, and he’d always hunker down and explain to her that she was too tiny still, would fly right out of that seat like a cannonball to the sky. He’d grin crookedly at the thought and playfully chuck her on the chin. His eyes would glitter in the dark of the fairy lights and fireworks from the beach, and she’d feel so lucky, so loved.

* * *

Every night before her bedtime, she was scared. Scared of falling asleep because there would be the nightmares of what was before, all this. Was that a lie too, or was this life, the happy one – the reality? She watched him walk into her tidy bedroom with pony print on the walls, the creases in his white dress shirt as he got on his knees by her bed, as if preparing to pray. She looked for tattoos on his skin, but found none. He bopped her nose at her questioning stare, making her laugh.

All she knew was that the bond they shared was the same. The way he locked eyes with her before telling her ”goodnight, sleep tight” was just as encompassing, her entire world.

When he turned his back and walked out, she lifted her tiny arm in the air with her hand reaching out.

The difference was that this world was not broken, and the one she came from when going back to sleep, was.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Oh, death

There was nothing poetic about dying.

 

Harley knew that, after having gone through it so many times. It was often times too sudden and confusing. But then, it was never fun to be pulled away from a party just starting – which was how it always happened.

 

It was nothing you could control. She hadn’t been able to control her boyfriend from driving their car into the harbor in Gotham. She hadn’t been able to control her urge to gouge out batty’s eyes with her special knife. The one he’d gotten engraved for her with both of their names on the handle- the first time he’d done something like that. Every other piece of clothing, weapon and jewelry she owned only had his name on it. This was their own – their unity.

 

No, she hadn’t been able to control it then – too soon did she loose too much air under water. Dying had been sudden, black and sort of tasted like puddin’s kisses – smoke and something like licorice.

 

The bat’s mouth tasted like helium and aftershave, which was why she laughed so hard coming back to life.

 

* * *

 

She’d died when he’d given her all those beautiful shocks that transformed her, gave birth to her.

 

It had been quick and sudden then too – and just as suddenly had she come back to him, so eager to see his face looking down at her that her heart couldn’t wait. She’d stunned him by remaining still, alive and breathing in and out. He never knew that she’d died, only to beg Hades to bring her back to him.

 

One of her hands shook uncontrollably after the fact, and he’d bent down to take it into his puckered red mouth – healing her, making sure that she was marked for life.

 

* * *

 

The guards had found her in prison one day, just short of not breathing. She hadn’t eaten for the past week or so, nor had one drop of water. This was slower, more painful – but so full of dreams that included him. She hungered for his flesh, for anyone’s flesh to sate her starving stomach. Her eyes fixated on arms, legs, fingers. The guards wore thick gloves and covered their crotches, lest she should take a bite.

 

_One bite to eat, perhaps several bites more._

 

But before she succumbed to the quiet, to being paler than any chemical could achieve, she was put on force-feeding machines and was forced to bang her head against the bars to achieve those dreams she’d had when she was a starving stick.

 

Starving yes, but pain made her think of him all too much.

* * *

There had been an odd occasion, back when she and J were still a new item. They still bickered a lot and he didn’t kiss her so much, didn’t show his love (even though she knew it was there, it was so obvious). Didn’t even push her around, didn’t put his hands on her unless necessary. How she begged for him to lay even one finger on her, inside her.

 

She’d been bored one night, decided to test out all the drugs that was available in the nearest corner shop. Ended up taking (purely accidental) a crazy mix of sleeping pills and valium plus vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.

 

J’s little helpers had watched her from afar during this, and one of them must have known something was about to go to shit.

 

At first it had been pretty funny, trying to (and failing) to puke it all up again. But a deep, deep sleep was waiting for her, and all she had to do was close her eyes. Her head was lolling around her shoulders and she was seeing funny shapes in the bathroom tiles when he barged in.

 

Did she smile when he came in? She didn’t remember.

 

His eyes were heavily shadowed, and everything was about to go blue and then black but then he snapped his fingers right next to her ear and her eyes focused, against her will. She was feeling a little sick. He was sniffing her face and hair like an animal.

 

Then he sat back on his haunches and looked at the floor, looked at her collection of various bottles of pills and found the one that was empty. Luckily, there was more of where that came from. He downed a whole bottle himself, hair of the dog to go with it.

 

She watched him with wide eyes, her head hazily doing the math inside her head. Bottle plus vodka and sleep equals death, always and too much.

 

After downing what was left of the vodka he smacked his lips in satisfaction and watched her with an almost content smile, eyes black and charged.

 

”It seems like I have been a little too...precarious.” Then his mood shifted and he gripped hold of one of her wrists in a bruising grip, his eyes hard and he was breathing quicker, more shallow. He brought his face close to hers, his breath rank of the vodka and something else, something raw that made her fidget and want to curl into him.

 

”You make sure I stay awake now, won’t you baby doll?”

 

”Anything you want puddin’. ”

 

”Anything I want.”

 

She wasn’t sure what happened the rest of the night – it was all hazy in her mind after. But she knew that he never let go of her wrist, kept her pale arm cradled to his chest for the remainder of the night – sometimes pinching her skin to make sure that she was all there.

 

But she was pretty sure that he died that night, and let something else inside him live. There was nothing poetic about dying for love.

 

 


	21. Dreams and dancing

If doctors had been able to come to any sort of conclusion to the way the infamous king and queen of Gotham worked, it was because the past did not exist to them.

 

And without the past, there was never any consequences. There was never a life to remember that had involved a person full of guilt, moral, a concience. Consequences were only remembered if they were physically marred onto them, such as their chemically pale skin and entrails that were not normal, alien from everyone else.

 

They were dogs chasing cars, not having a thought that they could ever be run over.

* * *

 

”Now go be a good girl and play, or there will be _consequences._ ” he hissed to Harley, who huffed but obeyed, strutting away to dance among the people on the neon bathed dance floor. 

 

Joker was busy, and he didn’t have time for yet another of Harley’s games involving pinapple—vodka shots. He would rather drink battery acid. _Now there was a thought…_

 

He was uncharacteristically moody that night, and somber enough that it had his goons on edge.

* * *

 

Harley forgot about him as soon as she started dancing. She would probably remain there for the rest of the night, letting her body tell her what to do with her hands, her arms and legs moving in time with the music. She was wearing a gold bikini set with a large battered t-shirt on top with several holes in it, since it was hot inside (and outside) the club. On her feet she was wearing black pumps, which were starting to feel too heavy, like prison shoes on her feet.

 

The people around her were trees and she was alone on the path, dancing home to the wolf in grandmothers bed.

 

Taking them off, she threw them over at the DJ, who promptly ducked ahead of time of her throws. He was (unfortunately) used to this. She grinned and stuck out her tounge at him, continuing to dance as he changed up the music to something a little more suited to her needs. An energetic techno song came on with a low, heavy beat that had her moving differently, slower.

 

The sweat on her back and arms were making her shiver, the sweat glittering under the blue neon lights. She had her eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, and people were starting to stare. She shook her head violently until her pigtails came undone, hair falling like a cloud over her face, only her mouth visable, wich was grinning like a mask. She looked like a wraith, a ghost preforming some kind of ritual. The club had melted away for her, and the people around her were warm bumpy things she occationally moved through.

 

People tried to touch her, but she moved away without even opening her eyes still, her hands making gestures to the ceiling like she was trying to compel some kind of god or deity.

 

Harley was so lost in what she was doing, and who she was, that it came as a shock when one of her hands made contact with a warm shoulder, and as she turned around and continued dancing, a hand snaked its way around her midriff, following her movements.

 

She felt warmth at her back and a familiar presence that was like that moment when you touched something searing and you jumped back, your stomach doing flip flops. Her mouth was dry and she didn’t know why. She spun around and he caught one of her hands in his, bringing it to his mouth so he could press his mouth against the palm as she continued to move, dance like she was possessed and he was the one who wasn’t insane, the one who knew how to stop – but chose not to.

She opened her eyes finally and could barely see his face through her hair – but of what she could see was good. He was not smiling, but there was a spark in his eyes that made her want to giggle, want to grab him and take him right there on the floor, in front of everybody. She could, and she would have (because she didn’t know what control was at the moment) if he hadn’t had the same idea.

 

He tugged her away from the dance floor, became rough with his hands around her as he pushed her to the nearest dark corner so he could bring her to that point where she remembered her place, and who they were, how she could feel when he made her scream.

 

Even if her lipstick was smeared after, and his clothes nowhere near decent, and despite the numerous hickies and bruises that covered them both, neither of them would truly remember it.

 

Instead, they got each a new tattoo later that night.

* * *

 

Afterwards they walked home ( a rarity) and Harley was tired and leaning on his shoulder, her eyes small and full of bedtime sadness. He’d given her his shoes (under much protest) since her own were missing since the club. Broken glass on his feet was like mother’s milk, cozy like a cup of hot chocolate.

 

”We can kill the bat tomorrow sugar, don’t look so put down.” he muttered into her hair, and she sighed wistfully.

 

” We always miss those little things.”

 

 


	22. Carnage

Before she had been shipped off to Belle reve, Miss Quinzel had been sent back to the place where she’d been first corrupted.

 

Arkham Asylum looked the same as it had when she’d come to work there (so long ago it seemed) but the smell was different – they had trouble getting rid of the remainder of brain tissue from the ceiling panels and, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was still the smell of fire and smoke in the hallways that Jokers departure had caused.

 

They didn’t exactly welcome her with open arms and a cake, but there was no better place to put her. Regular prisons wouldn’t take her – they were afraid she’d start too much trouble for them to handle. And since she was insane now to boot, it was agreed upon that maybe trying to cure her would be the best option.

 

They didn’t know how badly the Joker had done her in.

 

Joan Leland requested to see her, though her colleagues found that unwise. Quinzel had been a personal friend of hers, they had a shared past. But Joan needed to know just how far and how deep the Joker had ruined her. If there was any hope for her old friend to come back.

* * *

 

Her first session with Harley was difficult.

 

She looked at Joan with a touch of mischief that was...familiar. But there was something else there as well. She was strapped down in a straight jacket, chair and table both bolted to the floor.

 

”Do you remember who I am?” she had asked, and Harley had laughed.

 

”Of course doc, how could I forget you?”

 

”I don’t know, it seems you have forgotten other things since we last spoke. ”

 

Their last conversation had occurred only a few days before the breakout. She had asked about the Jokers progress and Harley had smiled at her and told her, quite calmly, that thing were turning out fine – that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

 

Harley grinned at her now from across the table and Joan couldn’t. She stared at her for a long time before she brought out a folder, containing crime scene photos. She displayed a few of them on the table, careful not to look at them herself.

 

”Do you know who this is?” she asked, tapping her finger against one of the photos. Harley leaned forward and frowned playfully.

 

”Hmm, too much blood to tell – a friend of yours?”

 

”Yes. Do you remember Dr. Stanley?”

 

A kind face flashed for a moment to life behind Harley’s eyes and she nodded.

 

”Oh sure, I remember him too! Gee, my memory isn’t that dodgy.”

 

”Then you remember that it was you who killed him?”

 

* * *

 

She had just done as Mistah J had instructed. She’d smuggled in a machine gun, just for him. He said he just wanted to hold it, like a little boy might want to hold a teddy bear for comfort. And she really couldn’t deny him that, could she?

 

It took her by surprise of course, when it became clear to her that more people were coming to get him out of there, that very same day. And that he would use that gun, on other people. Orderlies, nurses, other patients. But what could she do? He wanted to escape, he wanted freedom – what worried her most was if his promise was still good, if he was still going to take her with him.

 

But those thoughts fled from her mind when she saw someone on the phone across the hall from his cell. Someone was speaking rapidly into the receiver, alerting the guards as to what was happening. If the guards came now, Joker wouldn’t be able to escape. He would be stuck here forever.

 

He’d told her that he wouldn’t be able to last much longer in here, said that he was like a flower wilting without the sunlight. He had told her that he was dying without meaning, dying without being able to preform for the world.

 

And now someone was trying to keep him here, trying to poison her work in healing his mind. Someone wanted to shatter her Puddin to pieces like fine porcelain.

 

And that, was inexcusable.

 

* * *

 

”Do you remember what happened that day?” Joan asked calmly from across the table. Harley rolled her eyes like she tought the question was ridiculous.

 

”Well, yes. I was reborn and Puddin’ and me went for a nice ride in the countryside!” she said, smiling happily.

 

”I mean before that. What happened to Dr. Stanley?” Joan asked, and Harley smile slowly disappeared from her face.

 

”You want to know why I killed him.” she said, not a question but a statement. Her voice was curiously lower than before, more lucid.

 

”I want to know why you killed someone who had been your friend and colleague.” 

 

”He was going to ruin everything.”

* * *

When Dr. Stanley had seen her coming towards him, he had looked relieved. Dr Quinzel had always been good in tough situations, always knew what to do. Not that he didn’t, but she was better at keeping a level head. She had listened to his sad whining after the divorce, had shared jokes together in the coffee room. So his frame relaxed as he talked into the phone, even pausing when she got up next to him to ask her what they should do next – have the guards sedate the Joker with a tranquilizer dart or just wrestle him back into his cell.

 

His eyes got very round when he got a closer look at her though. She looked...feral.

 

”Harleen, I’m on the phone to the security team downstairs, what should I tell them to-”

 

Without so much as a hint of hesitation, Harley grabbed the side of his head and slammed it as hard as she could against the wall. She wasn’t used to fighting this way, so it didn’t do the trick. He was still concious, still upright – but so confused. Panic spread through them both, but for entirely different reasons. 

 

”Harl...” he managed to get out, but the blow to his head was too painful. Harley was not done. To her, the threat was still there. Like fighting against drowning, she grew all the more desperate to _make him shut up._

 

The black phone reciever was now hanging from its cord, banging against the wall rhytmitically, and Harley grabbed it in her hand. It was plastic, but it was hard enough to make a dent.

 

It took a long time.

 

The shape below her did not make any sound, except for when something inside it _gave in_. Then it was mostly wet, sticky sounds that reached her ears, something that crunched when she hit it with what was left of the receiver in her hands. The shape stopped breathing, but she continued hitting it. 

 

When she was done, she came to from the whole ordeal like it had been a strange dream, only it hadn’t been a dream. The evidence was all over her shaking hands, and arms. There were tears running down her face and she was breathing heavily.

 

Dr. Stanley did not exist. The threat was gone and the Joker was still somewhere in the now burning building. She heard gunshots from somewhere in the men’s ward, and she turned on her heel and ran towards it. 

 

* * *

Harley was staring at the pictures now, a strange expression on her face. It was something like sadness, but Joan knew better. Harley was looking inward, at that piece of herself that had been created that day, with that first person she killed. A person without remorse, without empathy.

 

”I think you knew what you did was wrong, but something else was more important to you. And that is why you are here and not in prison.”

 

That horrifying, predatory look in her eyes disappeared within the blink of an eye and she turned to Joan with that familiar playfulness in her eyes. But Joan couldn’t forget what she had seen in her, that her old friend was gone forever, and instead had been replaced with a monster.


End file.
